by Trudi Trueit
Isabelle ignores me. “Auf Wiedersehen, Erdnusskopf.” That sentence I know. It means “see ya, peanuthead” in German. I get that one a lot.
FOR SALE
ONE TWIN SISTER. nine years, ten months old. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Smart. Good memory. Missing sense of humor. House-trained. Will trade for dog that is same. Any breed. Phone 555-7078. Ask for Scab. Hurry.
“Izzy, wait.” I don’t want her to leave mad. “I’ll buy you a new cheetah purse. How much is it?”
“Twenty-five dollars.”
“Twenty-five bucks? For a crummy purse?”
“I knew you wouldn’t pay for it.”
“All I’ve got is nine dollars and twelve cents. Take it or leave it.”
She kicks at a leg that’s broken off my big Tyrannosaurus rex model. “Take it.”
“Want to shoot some hoops? Let’s play Horse.”
Isabelle doesn’t say anything. But she doesn’t go, either.
“I’ll even take an H to start,” I say.
“Don’t do me any favors. I’ll beat you fair and square.”
I fish my basketball out of the bottom of pile number two. I toss it to Isabelle. She catches it. “I’m still giving Mom and Dad my report.” She tucks the ball under her arm as she leaves. “And you’re still a Pilobolus.”
My sister thinks I’m fungus?
Wait till she finds the cheese in her underwear drawer.
CHAPTER
3
Baaaad Dog, Gooood Idea
Oscar is asleep in my lap. His short, coppery red fur shines in the sun. I stroke one of his floppy ears and his nose twitches. Doyle is so lucky. I’ve watched how Oscar races out of the house when Doyle gets home from school. His tail wags a zillion times a minute. He becomes a tornado of joy—spinning, spinning, spinning! That’s why I want a dog. A dog loves you even if you aren’t smart times ten or don’t know how to say the alphabet backward. A dog loves you because you are you.
“Banana peel.” Doyle is calling from inside my family’s trash can.
HOT DOG FACTS
OSCAR IS A DACHSHUND (DOCKS-HUNT). IT’S A German word that means “badger dog.” Dachshunds were once used to help people hunt for badgers and other small animals (but not anymore). Miniature dachshunds weigh twelve pounds or less. I bet my sister’s head weighs more than Oscar. Make way for the world’s biggest brain!
“No,” I say.
“Tea bag?”
“Nope.”
“Hey, look! Soggy potato skins.”
“Not stinky enough.” I need a megasmelly secret ingredient to finish Isabelle’s Smell.
“Wait . . . I think I’ve got something. . . . Oh, geez.” Doyle stands up. White goop is dripping from his fingers. “This had better be clam chowder, Scab.”
“I guess we should try Mr. Dawber’s can.”
“You try it. I’ve had enough fun going through your garbage.” He wipes his hands on his jeans. “I’ve got to walk Oscar.”
I gently nudge Oscar until his eyes open. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper. But his sleepy eyes aren’t looking at me. They are locked on to Doyle. “I’ll walk him,” I say, trying not to sound jealous.
“Are you sure?”
Am I sure? Am I sure?
“I’d better come with you.”
How hard can it be to walk a dog? But Oscar is Doyle’s dog, so I keep quiet. Doyle snaps Oscar’s leash on him and hands it to me. Sweet!
One thing I learn pretty quickly. You don’t walk a dog. A dog walks you. Oscar’s squatty legs zigzag down the sidewalk. He stops to sniff everything. And I mean everything.
“How long does it take to walk him?” I ask.
“About a half hour—”
“That’s not so bad.”
“Three times a day.”
“Three times?”
“You get used to it.”
“R-rruff,” says Oscar. I don’t think he likes us talking about him.
“We could walk our dogs together, if you had a dog,” says Doyle.
“I’ll get one.”
“You always say that.”
“This time, I’ve got a plan. See, I’m going to save up to buy a dog. Once my mom and dad see how responsible I am with money, they’ll know I’m responsible enough to take care of a pet. They’ll have to say yes.”
Doyle agrees.
“How much did Oscar cost?” I ask.
“We got him at the shelter in Arlington. I think he was about sixty bucks.”
“Bug spit.”
“How much have you got?”
“I had nine dollars and twelve cents in my safe. I had to give it to my sister.” I see his frown. “Don’t ask.
TOP SECRET!
SAFE IS LOCATED IN MY LIFE-SIZE FRANKENSTEIN monster head with “amazingly realistic” removable gel brain. Brain was lost last summer.*
Safe location: Under loose floorboards 2 feet, 7 ¾ inches from southwest corner of window.
* check pile number four.
“You know what?” Doyle’s face brightens. “You ought to get Isabelle to ask for your dog.”
“My sister? Why?”
“You’ve already tried, like what, eight times this year?”
“Seven,” I lie. It’s really nine. “I don’t need Isabelle. I can get my own dog.”
Oscar is barking.
“All I’m saying is that your sister could be a big help,” says Doyle. “She’s got the smarts. She’ll know what to say. Plus, she’s really responsible, and you . . .”
I wait for him to finish so I can kick him in the calf.
“Arf, arf.” Oscar is tugging on his leash.
“Wuh-oh,” says Doyle.
A black Doberman is galloping down the sidewalk toward us. Lewis Pigford is stumbling after the dog, trying to hold on to its red leash. “Stop, Dimples! Stop!” Lewis trips. He nearly falls sideways into a big rosebush.
I slap my thigh and laugh. It serves Lewis right. The guy is always picking on some poor kid. And usually that kid is shier, shorter, or younger than Lewis.
Doyle, however, isn’t laughing. “Dimples is bad news. Let’s get out of here.” He starts walking away.
I gently pull on Oscar’s leash to turn him around. But he has seen Dimples too.
“Oscar, let’s go,” I say.
He doesn’t budge. He just barks faster. And louder. “Arf, arf, arf!” I can’t tell if he wants to play with Dimples or fight him. Neither idea is good.
“Oscar, that’s a bad idea. That dog will eat you for lunch,” I say, yanking on the leash.
Oscar is too busy barking to listen to reason.
“Scab,” Doyle shouts over his shoulder, “come on!”
Dimples is half a block away. He’s charging at full speed. Doyle is right. We need to get out of here. But what do you do when you are locked in a tug-of-war with a stubborn wiener dog? “Doyle!” I cry. “Help!”
My best friend is beside me. He scoops Oscar up in his arms. He unhooks the leash. “Run, Scab! RUN!”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I pick up my feet and stay on Doyle’s heels. Suddenly I am skidding chin first across the sidewalk. Concrete is ripping into my chin and palms. “Owwwww!”
I skid to a stop and roll over. Oscar’s leash is wrapped around my knees. It’s tangled in a knot. The more I grab, the tighter the knot gets. Dimples is barreling down on me. His red leash is flying free. Where is Lewis? What happened to Lewis? My fingers can’t seem to do anything right. I can’t get loose!
Woof! Woof! WOOF! The bark thunders in my head. I see black eyes and sharp teeth and globs of drool. And they’re all coming straight for my throat.
“Get up! Get up!” yells Doyle.
Kicking wildly, I break free of the leash. I bolt for the maple tree in Mrs. Carbanito’s front yard and pull myself up into the V of the trunk. I am clawing bark when I feel Dimples’s jaw clamp on to the leg of my jeans. He pulls. I kick. I kick hard. I hear the rip of denim. Branches are scratching my face, neck, and
arms. I keep jerking my leg with everything I’ve got, trying to shake the dog loose. On my fourth kick I feel air. That’s it! Dimples has let go! I climb like my life depends on it, which it pretty much does. I don’t look down until I am a good fifteen feet off the ground.
Woof! Dimples is jumping up on the trunk. Woof! Woof!
Each bark sends a bolt of fear through me. Standing on a thick branch, I hug the trunk. My arms are scraped up. My knees are shaking. My mouth feels weird. Sort of wet. Blood?
Dimples circles the tree. He looks up at me hungrily. He growls. After a few tense minutes of glaring and growling, he trots away. Just like that, he trots away. Like I am a toy he’s tired of playing with.
I close my eyes. I don’t move. Not for a long, long time.
“Scab?” Doyle’s voice floats up to me. “You okay?”
“I’m all right.” I don’t sound like me. I sound like Isabelle.
“You coming down?”
I take my time getting out of the tree ’cause my hands are sore and my legs are still noodles. There’s a big hole in the back right leg of my jeans.
“You cut your chin up good,” says Doyle. He’s holding out a couple of plastic grocery bags to catch the blood.
“I’m okay,” I say. I wipe my face on the bottom of my T-shirt.
Doyle is still trying to hand me the bags.
“Really, I’m fine.”
He shakes them. “They aren’t for you.”
I don’t get it.
“You wanted to walk him.” My best friend nods toward his dog. Oscar is pooping in the middle of Mrs. Carbanito’s orange pansies. He’s parking a couple of steamy ones beside a spinning plastic rooster.
I stare at Doyle. He doesn’t expect me to—
“Pick it up,” he says. “It’s the law.”
He does!
Oscar is done. I, however, am still staring at Doyle.
Doyle sighs. “Do you want a dog or don’t you?”
I am beginning to wonder. Even so, I snatch the bags from him.
“Use the first bag like a glove to grab the poop and put it in the second bag,” instructs my best friend. “Then put the first bag inside the second bag and tie it up tight.”
I reach out. I grab. It’s a little squishy. And a lot noisome, as Isabelle would say. Even the plastic rooster is looking the other way.
“What do you feed this dog?” I fling the poop into the bag. “This is the most disgusting stuff I’ve ever—”
I look up at Doyle. We’re both thinking the same thing. This is it. We’ve done it! At last, we’ve found the final ingredient for Isabelle’s Smell.
CHAPTER
4
Super Spy Strikes Again
Did you bring it?”
“Yep.”
Doyle wiggles his fingers. “Hand it over. I mean, smell it over!”
I look around the playground for Isabelle’s fluffy pink coat. I don’t see it. Of course, that doesn’t mean she isn’t lurking somewhere. My sister is a good lurker. I unzip my jacket pocket.
Doyle looks confused. “Where is it?”
“I couldn’t bring the big sprayer. I ride the bus with Super Spy, remember?”
“Right.”
The plastic spray bottle I take out of my pocket is about five inches tall. My dad has a bunch of these scattered all over the house. They hold the liquid cleaner for his eyeglasses. I snagged one that was almost empty to fill with my new formula for Isabelle’s Smell.
I hold up the bottle. “Ready?”
Doyle leans forward.
I take off the black cap. “Set.”
He sticks his nose in the air.
“Go!” I pump once.
A thick, grayish brown cloud floats between us.
“Pee-eeew!” Doyle shrieks. He stumbles backward.
Coughing, I put the cap back on the bottle. My eyes are stinging, but I can see that a group of second graders have noticed us. I grab my best friend, spin him around, and we start walking across the playground.
ISABELLE: SUPER SPY!
X-RAY EYES see through backpacks, lunch bags, and classroom walls
DOLPHIN SUPERSENSITIVE EARS hear me burp from a mile away
GIGANTOR BRAIN remembers every toy of hers I’ve broken since we were two
FLYING FINGERS take notes faster than a speeding spit wad
MEGAMOUTH tattles before I’ve even finished making the spit wad
FEET OF FIRE race from the playground to the vice principal’s office in 3.7 seconds! Whooooosh!
MY INVENTIONS
INVENTION
GOOD THING
BAD THING
licorice toothpaste
tastes great
black teeth
peanut butter root beer
my two favorite foods
lumpy root beer
squirrel parachute
saves baby squirrels from falling out of nests
Mom won’t let me test it out on squirrels
bite-proof shark suit
if you look like a shark in the water, real sharks won’t attack, right?
Mom won’t let me test it out on my sister
sister-be-gone spray (Isabelle’s Smell)
stinks like crazy
doesn’t last long enough; sister comes back
“That stuff is rank,” says Doyle, filling his lungs with fresh air. “You did it, Scab. You finally invented something good. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” He’s right. Not all of my inventions are brilliant. Okay, most of them are disasters. But you can’t give up. I learned that after I read about an American engineer named Richard James. He was working with springs, trying to design a meter for battleships. Mr. James accidentally dropped one of the springs on the floor and saw that it kept moving on its own. Tada! The Slinky was born. Who knows? Maybe someday one of my accidents will turn out to be something important.
I see pink! It’s Isabelle, all right. She is sitting on the bottom step of the orchestra portable. Her head is bent over her notebook. Bug spit! I am too late. She is already writing her news report. Super Spy has struck again.
I shove the spray bottle at Doyle. “Take this. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
“Keep it out of sight. And don’t talk to anybody. Not even Will.” He’ll want to know all the details. I’m not ready to share my invention quite yet, even with my second best friend.
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Doyle.” My best friend has a problem keeping secrets.
“I said okay.”
I sneak up on my sister. “Hi, Izzy.”
She slaps the notebook to her chest. “I told you—”
“Is-a-belle, what are you writing?”
“Nothing.” She looks guilty.
“If it’s another report about me—”
“It’s not.” She narrows her eyes. “Why? What did you do?”
Now it’s my turn to say, “Nothing,” and look guilty. It’s strange to see Isabelle alone. At recess my sister is usually glued to her two best friends, Kendall Peters and Laura Ling. The girls are still fourth graders, but all the upper grades have the same recess. “So if you’re not writing Scab News, why are you over here by yourself?”
“Okay, okay.” Isabelle makes a big X on the page with a red felt-tip pen. “I guess I can forget it this time. But . . . uh . . . stop . . . throwing away your orange at lunch.” She shuts her notebook.
Now I am confused. Isabelle never forgets anything, especially when it comes to my behavior. But I don’t have time to ask her what’s going on. Doyle, Will, Lewis, Alec, and Henry are coming this way. My stomach knots up. I need to get rid of my spying sister. Fast!
“Don’t you have anyone to play with?” I ask Isabelle, still wondering why Laura and Kendall haven’t shown up. Even girls don’t take this long to go to the bathroom.
HOW SISTERS MAKE
YOU CRAZY!
They never want to do anything fun, like c
atch grasshoppers or make a mud fort.
They hog the bathroom for two hours and come out looking EXACTLY the same as when they went in.
They want to play beauty shop and curl your hair. NO WAY!
They expect you to remember where you hid the heads to their dolls. (Check my mud fort.)
“Oh, sure. Sure I do.” She checks her watch. “Uh . . . I almost forgot. I told Jenna Lucas and Libby Miles I’d play foursquare. I . . . uh . . . I’d better get going.”
“Bye.” I shoo her along as the guys close in.
Alec slaps me on the back. “That’s a mighty pukey spray you got there, Scab.”
“Thanks.” I glare at Doyle. Two seconds. I leave the guy alone for two seconds.
“My little brother is always stealing my model airplane paint,” Alec says. “This will teach him to keep his slimy mitts off my stuff.”
“Mine gets into my baseball cards,” says Will.
“I have to share a room with my baby sister,” pipes Henry Mapanoo. “She’s three.”
Everybody groans.
“So what’s in it?” asks Will.
I shrink back. I knew it. He wants the scoop, of course. He’s always interested in my inventions, which is one reason why I like him. But now is not the time. “Just some stuff,” I say. “A little of this and a little of that.” I signal him that I will share more later. I don’t want to say too much in front of the other guys.
SCAB’S TIP #4
IF YOUR SISTER WANTS EVERY-thing you have, the next time you get a bag of Gummi frogs, bite the head off each one. She won’t dare touch them. Let’s hear it for boy germs!
Lewis Pigford punches me. “So what do you want for it, Scab?”
“Want?”
He starts digging in the pocket of his jeans. “Yeah, how much?”
I didn’t plan on selling my sister repellant, especially to a gooberhead like Lewis.
Doyle elbows me. I can tell by the way his eyebrows are going up and down that he thinks I should do it. I scan the playground for a fluffy pink coat. I don’t see it. What I do see is Lewis holding out several crumpled dollar bills. At first I think it’s play money, but it’s real, all right. Everyone’s looking at me.